


Five Miles Off Exit 49

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Creepy Hannibal, Injured Will, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Middle of the Night Supply Collection, POV Outsider, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Situational Irony, Smoking, Typical Americana, Will and Hannibal on the run, injured hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 07:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14587554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: He's tried of smoking. He's tired of old people traveling to Florida with their heavy northern accents and their annoying lap dogs and their big luggage. He's tired of working third shift at the 7-11 in a town where everyone goes to bed at 8 p.m. and a midnight shift means eight hours of sitting alone.But sometimes, we're not alone as we think we are. And telling someone about the discount on Tylenol may mean the difference between joining a nameless rabble of victims and living to see another smoke break.





	Five Miles Off Exit 49

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just feeling inspired these last few day folks! Thanks for checking it out :) 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy! Please R and R, let me know what you think! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at this same name!

September was the start of the cold. When the wind that swept over the dry spaces in between Georgia cities started to have a bite to it instead of blowing around the clouds of thick humidity that hung heavy over the deep South. It was this time of year that old white people, their bones creaking with the effort of walking and talking and moving in and out of bright, shiny SUVs with kayaks and luggage strapped to the tops, started to show up on the long stretches of interstate. Snowbirds, as they were, fleeing from the cold in Ohio and the East Coast, bringing heavy northern accents and a pushy kind of standoffish Northern charm with them.

At the moment, even they were gone and he was staring at the blinking “24 Hour Service” that hovered below the 7-11 logo on the sign out front, sitting with his feet in front of him, rubbing his shoe soles loudly against the gravel. He should be inside at the register, he knows that, and also that if Jefferey the anxiety-ridden assistant manager should show up, he would be out of a job. But there was no one there, only his own 1999 Toyota Camry parked in one of the employee spots around the side as the 3 a.m. air stagnated and the mosquitoes desperate to get in one more round of eggs before the winter were kept at bay only by the thick coils of smoke burning off the end of his cigarette that dripped ashes into the beds of grass.

It was his third smoke break in 45 minutes, mostly from boredom than anything else. He had checked the pumps, cleaned the handles, wiped down the windows, cleaned the counters, restocked lotto tickets. There were only so many times that he could reorganize all the Frito corn chips by flavor, by color, by expiration date, by brand, before he had to go back out. At least if he was smoking, Jefferey couldn’t say anything about his being lazy. Addiction was a disease, and to keep him from his menthols was discrimination.

He stood up to go in, flicking the cigarette butt into the bunch of them accumulating on the edge of the pavement where the oldest ones had been turned dark brown by the water pushed over by cars and the newest looked like they still might have had a good smoke in them. He wondered, not really caring, how many were his own, especially from that three days he had tried smoking American Spirits, some organic bullshit that was never quite enough to satisfy, to appease Jessica who yelled at him for destroying his lungs even while she was sleeping with the man who was painting her parent’s shutters. He guessed that he should have known: those shutters had apparently taken six months to paint. But why she had seemed to care so much about his lungs, he still hadn’t been able to figure out.

He opened the door to the lobby, the dull buzz of fluorescent lights and outdated Faith Hill hitting his ears at the same time a pair of headlights flashed on the wall. He turned around, watching as a truck, a lot newer than most of the ones from in town, turned too hard and pulled into one of the pumps. He moved in to stand behind the counter as no one got out. He expected them to get out and pay by card like everyone else did, unimpressed by the standard fare inside the station. But after a few moments of his staring at the card reader blinking “SCAN NOW” at him, the door opened with the jingle of the little bell.

The song had changed to an old Johnny Cash recording, which seemed perfect for the man who walked in, the most haggard looking man that he had seen in weeks. He stared over at the counter for a hot second before he walked away, showing off a spectacular bloodied bandage on the side of his face, taped over a haphazardly shaven black beard. He went straight to the back, where his curly-hair bobbed over the rack that held packs of Trident, Extra, and Juicy Fruit, and started digging through the water cooler.

“Hey, buddy!” He yelled, and a sharp stare met him. “We have baskets.” He pointed over to the door where a stack of baskets were collecting dust on the rack. It was rare that any one ever used one, mostly senior citizens who couldn’t seem to hold onto a snack pack of peanuts, let alone two Diet Cokes at a time.  

This guy, whoever he was, wasn’t a typical traveler. There was something jerky in his motions, almost as if he were in pain or afraid. If this were a town, or even a gas station, where anything to be afraid of every happened, he might understand that. He stepped up to the baskets, depositing six bottles of chilled Smart Water into his basket with a nod of thanks as he returned to the cooler. He wasn’t actually sure anyone had ever bought the Smart Water before, since it was nearly three dollars a bottle, but he had pegged this guy as one who didn’t want to be asked a lot of questions.

The guy moved on to the coffee, soda, and energy cooler, and he looked out at his truck. Nice truck, only a little bit of mud around the wheel-wells. But he nearly jumped out of his skin when he looked up through the windshield and another pair of eyes was looking at him. A passenger, blinking at though he had just woken up from a very long sleep. Something about the guy looked vaguely familiar, but he looked away quickly, not wanting to make him think anything was suspicious. If these two were running off together, he couldn’t blame them for leaving at 3 a.m. to get out of this town. The people were nice enough, but at the first hint of something “unholy” and you became the talk of every church group, book club, knitting society, fishing organization, and school social circle the town had to offer. If they wanted to get out, he certainly wouldn’t give them a hard time, especially since he’d been wanting to get out himself for most of the last twenty-two years.

“Do you have a medical section?” The guy finally asked, his voice gruff, talking like his jaw couldn’t move all the way. The bandage at least explained that, and he wondered what exactly in the hell this guy had done to get cut up like that, enough to match all the other cuts and dark bruises on his face.

“Next aisle, past the Pringles. Tylenol’s 2-for-1 right now.” He went back to looking away, tapping on the counter, trying to keep his gaze away from the man in the car outside, who’s stare he could feel as if it were something tangible, and instead focused on the stack of untouched newspapers. The usual reports, the high school football team had made the state finals for the fortieth year in a row, Molly Price was the town saint with her animal shelter, the Harvest Festival preparations had begun for the weekend. Nothing that was real news, nothing that anyone who didn’t live in this zipcode would even bat an eye at.

Finally, the guy came to the front, basket laden with the two bottles of Tylenol, gauze and bandages, Neosporin tubes, what seemed like bottles of Starbucks mocha drinks, a couple of off-brand energy drinks, two packs of condoms, all the beef jerky he could stack together, and the armload of Smart Water he had first gotten. “I need forty dollars on our pump,” He added, watching as the stuff was wrung up and bagged.

He nodded, adding it to the total, trying to be careful not to set him off. He was definitely on edge, though it wasn’t clear why. “Is this newspaper sterile?” He looked up at the stack of papers where the guy was pointing.

“I reckon.” He shrugged, already longing for another cigarette and for this guy to get out of here with his friend. “Man delivered ‘em yesterday, and no one’s touched ‘em.”

“I’ll take all of them.” The guy said, hesitating as if knowing how strange that sounded. “And a small bag of ice.”

He added thirty newspapers and the ice to the total, shrugging again. He wondered if Jessica had been right all along and maybe he’d really screwed up his brain with all that nicotine and tar and whatever else was in cigarettes had gone to his brain. “Your buddy okay out there?”

“What?” The guy jerked back, hundred-dollar bill in his hands. “What do you mean?” He corrected himself.

“Stares a lot.” He took the hundred and rang him up, shutting the drawer and handing over only a little bit of change. “The pump should be ready to go. Come again.”

The guy stared at him for another minute, taking his bags of low-quality snack food and medication in his hands, stepping out without a thank you or acknowledgement. He stopped to get his ice before stalking off to the car, setting the bags on the seat where his passenger asked him something, his eyes still fixed inside the store. After a moment, the guy shook his head, and the other one finally stopped staring and started rummaging, emptying the ice into what he hoped was a cooler and not just the backseat of their car.

He resisted the urge to go outside and start smoking again, and grabbed the remote where the sound on the old, fat-back TV drowned out Martina McBride over the speakers. Local Weather on the 8’s, they were looking at sunny and 65 for most of the week, and he ignored the lights as they flashed again against the back wall as they started to pull away, only having used thirty-six of their forty dollars but not bothering to come in for the change. With the wad of hundreds that guy had in his wallet, he wasn’t surprised.

The news changed to some special report on the national news about two criminals on the run out of Baltimore, fresh off a killing spree, leaving some woman dead in her home with her legs missing. Messed up enough that he turned it off, ringing up a pack of Marlboro Reds on the four dollars the guy had left and stepped back outside to pull a fresh one out of the pack.


End file.
